


Home is Nowhere

by LoveLikeWinter1



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Pre-Awakening, Templars suck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:06:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9320780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveLikeWinter1/pseuds/LoveLikeWinter1
Summary: "The one thing he remembered clearly was that he wouldn’t, couldn’t break.He made a promise, and although most Templars knew him as a compulsive liar, this was a promise he intended to keep."Just some writings on Arilanna Surana and Anders, before and during Awakening. Because I couldn't resist trying my hand at writing a (slightly) happier, less angsty Anders (kind of).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Will I ever finish a fic before starting another? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I hope this is remotely enjoyable - it was written rather quickly and ended up being much longer than I thought. I really enjoyed playing my angsty rebel Surana, and I always figured her and Anders would have gotten along swimmingly back at the Circle Tower x)
> 
> Now rated M for cursing, and eventual smut (although you'll be safe for a few more chapters)!

“Ser Arlech, I _assure_ you, there is no need…”

“Greagoir’s orders.” One of the Templars rasped disdainfully. “He’s doing you a favour by not killing the boy, but he needs to be taught a lesson.”

Irving was pleading for his cause, _again_ , and Anders couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. In all the years he’s spent at Kinloch Hold, he’d given the poor man his fair share of grief and anguish; he wouldn’t have been surprised if, this time, the First Enchanter had ordered to have him thrown into the lake to drown. 

This had been his seventh attempt at escaping and, so far, his most successful. He had almost reached Highever; from there he would have taken ship for Kirkwall. His plan was to cross the Marches to reach Tevinter, but the Templars caught up with him before he could even leave the Coastlands. He fought as best he could, and almost killed one of his pursuers in the process. But he was half-starved and exhausted from the journey by then, and was promptly dragged back to the Tower in fetters and manacles.

Five Templars had been charged to drag him into the dungeons, and a crowd of curious apprentices and concerned enchanters had gathered all around him, which only made the burn of defeat even harsher; Anders forced himself to avoid their pitiful gazes. He’d been collared and leashed, his hands clasped in heavy manacles, and the beating he received turned even the smallest of movement into searing agony.

“What’s going on?” A feminine voice called out angrily from the silent crowd. Anders made the mistake of stopping abruptly in surprise, and a Templar harshly kneeled him in the back to press him on.

The crowd shuffled until a young redheaded mage emerged from a group of wide-eyed apprentices. Her small stature, as well as the tapering ears emerging from a shock of red curls gave away her elven nature, although she stood as proudly as any man.

“Ari?” Anders muttered in surprise, but she didn’t seem to hear him. 

The elf stood before him, her robes all frayed, her hair disheveled. Black circles had formed under her emerald eyes, as it often happened when she spent too many nights perusing the Tower’s huge library. The aura of fiery red curls around her face made her look almost fierce, despite her delicate, childish features. Anders had always thought her pretty, in a bookish sort of way, although they never became more than friends. He suspected she loved her old dusty tomes and parchments too much to even consider the distraction of romance. The thought made him smile.

He watched as the tiny mage ostensibly planted herself before the Templars, wolfishly eyeing each of them in turn as if she was about to start a bloody confrontation. Then her emerald gaze found him, and he heard her gasp at the sight of his bruised and bloodied face.

“Don’t.” He intimated. The last thing he wanted was for her to get into trouble because of him. He shook his head slowly to emphasize the words, but she ignored his warning.

 “You have no right!” She shouted angrily at the Templars, almost choking on her words as she threw herself at Anders, healing magic already forming at her fingertips. Before her magic could reach him, however, Ser Arlech stepped in, pushing her aside as his own powers disrupted her mana flow. Anders felt the familiar hum of her magic wane, then dissolve entirely.

 Arilanna shot the Templar a murderous glance, but she wasn’t stupid enough to attack him. Instead she turned to Irving, angry tears streaking her freckled cheeks.

 “You will allow this? Look at him!” She pointed angrily at Anders, but the First Enchanter’s gaze was rived to the ground in shameful regret. “It’s a miracle he can still stand! Maker, Irving, you’re supposed to protect us. If not you, who will?”

 “I tried, child, believe me.” Irving tried to soothe her, although his calm demeanor only seemed to agitate her further. Ari turned to the Templars, obviously unimpressed by Irving’s excuses.

 “Where are you taking him?” She snarled defiantly. All around them the crowd of apprentices was expanding, and Anders could hear their angry murmurs. The Templars were growing uneasy.

 “We’re…” One of the Templars began tentatively, a young man by the name of Cullen. Anders knew him rather well, for new recruits were often assigned to guard apprentices and younger mages. This one was soft around the edges, Anders knew, and seemed to have taken quite a shine to Arilanna. He always treated her gently, and on several occasions he’d turned a blind eye to her rebellious moods. The elf, however, regarded him with the same disdain as she did the other Templars, and Anders always took great pleasure in watching his awkward attempts at flirting go amiss.

 “His fate does not concern you.” Ser Arlech interrupted menacingly, but Arilanna didn’t flinch.

 “They have the right to know.” Irving answered calmly. “Your friend tried to flee the Tower seven times. He almost killed an anointed Knight Templar to prevent being captured. By all accounts his behavior is punishable by death, but Greagoir was merciful. Anders is to be restrained in the dungeons with no contacts with the outside, and is to remain there until next spring.”

 “Merciful?” Arilanna howled, biting back a sob, the anger in her voice almost palpable. “You’d have him thrown into solitary for a year? How can anyone even survive that?”

 “These orders do not reflect my will, child.” Irving tried to placate the elf, but Anders knew she was past the point of reason.

 “You’ll kill him!” She hissed at the Templars. “You’ll kill him, and for what? For wanting a taste of freedom? For not submitting to your stupid rules? You-“

 She was cut short as Ser Arlech hit her across the face with all the weight of his steel glove, splitting her lower lip open. Irving looked away and Cullen flinched, but Anders was the only one to complain.

 “Don’t touch her, you bastard!” He spat angrily. The Templar turned around swiftly, slamming into Anders’ stomach. The pain would have made him scream if the blow hadn’t caused his breath to catch in his throat.

 “Know your place, mage.” Ser Arlech growled, his icy stare fixed on Arilanna. “Irving, restrain your charge before I lose my patience.

 “Ari, I’ll be fine.” Anders promised in a bid to reassure the elf, but it only seemed to make her angrier.

 “Bullshit.” She snarled. “They want to break you, Anders. They’ll leave you to rot in a cell until madness takes you and there is nothing left of you but an empty husk!” She was crying unrestrainedly now, although her assured voice thundered across the hall.

 The crowd was murmuring again, and Anders saw anger flash across many faces. He knew some mages disapproved of his continuous escapes, and a few even blamed him for the recent increase in conflicts between Circle mages and Templars. But several of them rooted for him, whether silently or openly, and he knew he’d ignited a spark of hope for many.

 “Don’t let them win!” She pleaded, the look in her eyes beyond heartbreaking. “Don’t you dare. Promise me!”

 “Ari, I will. I –“

 “I’ve had enough of this.” Ser Arlech growled, pulling sharply on Anders’ fetters. He fell onto the ground, hard, and his words caught in his throat. He watched in horror as Arlech approached Arilanna, his expression calm and impassible. The pummel of his sword hit her in the stomach. She doubled over in pain, and the sword’s hilt crashed against the back of her exposed neck. He saw her topple to the ground, unconscious.

 “You fucker!” Anders exploded in anger as two Templars started dragging him away. He pulled on his manacles in a desperate bid to conjure up some magic, but he was bound too tightly to be able to cast a single spell. He elbowed one of the Templars in the ribs with what little strength he had left, but the man was clad in armor and barely budged. “Realease me and face me, if you dare!”

 “You wouldn’t last a second.” Ser Arlech answered complacently.

 Anders thrashed in anger, growling at the pain, but his best efforts were useless against the Templars’ chains. He saw Irving fuss around Arilanna, before ordering Cullen to take her back to the mages’ quarters. Cursing, he allowed the Templars to drag him to his fate.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally rewrote this piece that had been rotting in my laptop for months, changing it a little to make it fit this story.
> 
> Yay for feeling bad for poor, awkward Cullen! :D
> 
> This chapter includes references to generally shitty states of mind, including self-harm. Nothing graphic, but it's definitely there. Do not read if this might upset you. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy :)

The cell was dark and damp, buried so deep underground that no sunlight could reach it. The first few days hadn’t been too difficult. He sat grudgingly on his cot, muttering to himself and picturing the most colourful ways to put an end to Ser Alrech’s pathetic little life. He could use his magic for light, and had taken to summoning wisps from the Fade every once in a while for company.

But the darkness and isolation started to take a toll. He noticed he was starting to forget things: he couldn’t remember the last book he’d read, or the name of the village where he was born. Even something as natural as spell casting had become increasingly difficult. Soon enough he was sitting in constant darkness, unable to summon even the faintest flame. He found himself unable to formulate coherent thoughts, as if his mind was not his own anymore. He would spend what seemed like hours furiously pacing around his cell until his brain decided it might be nighttime, and he fell into broken bouts of sleep.The one thing he remembered clearly was that he wouldn’t, couldn’t break. He made a promise, and although most Templars knew him as a compulsive liar, this was a promise he intended to keep.

Once a week (or at least he assumed it was once a week), a Templar would drag him out of his cell and drench him in cold water, scrubbing away the filth, before shoving him back into his cell rather unceremoniously. Courtesy of Irving, Anders assumed. The First Enchanter was at the mercy of the Templars as much as any mage, but he still held authority within Kinloch Hold. Irving always liked Anders – although perhaps liked was too strong a word. He seemed to respect him, to some extent at least, and had always been more than patient with the rebellious mage.

At first this occasional human contact was almost pleasant, despite the guards’ roughness. After a few weeks, he began dreading it. He could hear them whisper at night, or at least he thought he could, although sometimes his mind was clear enough to realize that the voices must have been in his head. Demons, Templars, all were out to get him, and the only place that was safe was the corner of his cell. He started fighting every time they came to wash him, kicking and screaming, but to no avail. They would scrub him harshly, despite the bloody scratches and bite marks that now covered his body. They’d tell him he’d done that to himself, but he could never remember doing it.

One day he was woken up by the sound of hushed voices. Those didn’t belong to the Templars. The guards were always boisterous and oafish; they didn’t need to whisper. He sat stiffly on a corner of his cell, fear clutching at his throat. He would have cast a spell to protect himself, if only he remembered how.

“At the end of the corridor.” A man’s voice reverberated against the cell’s walls. He knew the voice, although he couldn’t remember whom it belonged to.

He could hear footsteps now, hurried and fluttering and light. A small, feminine silhouette stood in front of his cell, her small hands clutching at the metal bars. Anders whimpered.

 “Anders?” The voice was shaky, and laden with concern and anger. “Shit, Anders? What in Andraste’s… Oh, fuck.”

 The silhouette had conjured up a small flame that rested in the palm of her hand. He could see her now, and she could no doubt see him. His first reaction was to shy away from the intruders, to shut his eyes and wait until they decided he wasn’t worth the trouble.

But there was something familiar about the woman standing in front of him: freckled pale cheeks, full lips, an everlasting frown that crinkled her brow and made her look like a crossed child.

 “Ari?” He croaked, blinking furiously at the sudden light.

Her eyes widened, and she turned around angrily.

“Unlock the door. Now!”

There was a pause, and a second silhouette joined the first, although its face was too far away from the flame for Anders to discern its features. It slid an iron key into the heavy lock of the cell’s door and, as soon as Arilanna had entered, the door was shut behind her.

 “Ari.” He said again, more assuredly, as memories came back rushing through his mind. The girl stifled a sob and threw her arms around him. He tried his best to push away the anguish stemming from the sudden contact, instead allowing himself to relax slightly in her embrace. “How in the Maker’s name…”

 “I’m sorry Anders, I‘m so sorry.” There was frustration in her voice, and he could feel her trembling with anger as she often did. She let go of him, and her gaze wandered along his bruised body. “Maker, have they… beaten you?”

There was a faint hum as Arilanna conjured up a spark of healing magic. She slowly directed it at him, her deft fingers working their way through the cuts and bruises on his naked arms and chest, injuries he knew were his own doing. He remained silent, exhaling deeply as her soothing touch eased the burning pain on his skin. She took her time, biting back tears and focusing on his wounds until her mana reserves faltered and her magic waned.

 “I’m sorry I took so long.” She resumed while giving her magic time to regenerate. “I tried, really tried, since they put you down here I… I never managed to make it this far.”

 “You’re here now.” He retorted, confused. “How?”

 She nodded briefly towards the cell’s door.

 “Cullen.” She breathed quietly. “It took a lot of coaxing. I think he took pity on me eventually.”

 The realisation hit him hard. The Templars were rarely friendly towards any of their charges, but most mages knew that at least some could be bribed into delivering a letter to a relative, or to ease a punishment. Mages weren’t allowed to carry money – most of them didn’t even possess any – but several Templars, especially younger recruits, were known to be easily swayed by acts of the flesh.

 “Shit, Ari!” He broke off, unable to contain his anger, and barely noticed the faint sparks of electricity forming in his palm. “Did you… Did he force you to _fuck_ him?”

A strange noise echoed from the corridor, something between an outraged snort and a drowning man’s gurgle. Anders guessed the sound had come from Cullen; knowing him, the young Templar must have been just about dying from embarrassment. Anders didn’t care.

“No.” Arilanna’s voice was reassuring, and there was a hint of laughter in her eyes. “He… he isn’t like that. He did me a kindness; he expected nothing in return.”

“That’s only because he wants to get into your smallclothes.” Anders retorted, and the young elf bit her lip to stifle a laugh.

“May I remind you that I am right here?” Cullen’s voice was shaky from embarrassment, and Anders knew the Templar’s face must have turned bright red by now. The thought pleased him greatly.

“Why not join us, then?” Anders hissed towards the shadowy silhouette of the Templar, who was standing well away from his cell. “Won’t you look at what your fellow Templars did to me? Are you ashamed at just how far the Order will go to punish us?”

“Be nice.” Arilanna pleaded, gently punching Anders’ arm. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”

He scowled, but quickly decided that he wouldn’t spend what little time he had with Arilanna moaning about the Templars.

“How long has it been?” He asked, his voice weak and raspy from his prolonged silence. “It’s difficult to keep track of time down here.”

“Three months and seven days. I’ve been keeping track religiously.”

There was guilt in her gaze, so much that it had almost overcome the angry scowl she usually wore. She looked tired too, the dark rings under her eyes deeper and darker than usual, and the soft curve of her hips was now almost imperceptible beneath her robes. Anders knew she’d spent many nights awake in her bed, blaming herself for not fighting harder against his imprisonment. He also knew she must have spent entire days at Irving’s door, pleading for his release and, when denied, cursed and barked at the First Enchanter until she was forcibly removed from his office.

It was a dance she eagerly performed every time she felt a mage had been mistreated, and it had branded Arilanna as a protector to fellow enchanters, and a spectacular annoyance to the Templars. He only hoped she wouldn’t get into too much trouble, especially not while he was locked up in this hole.

“You’ve been counting days? Missed me that much?” He made sure to speak loudly and clearly enough for Cullen to hear him. As childish as it was, it pleased him to know there was at least one thing in this world that was denied to the Templar but not to him. Arilanna almost smiled, scowling.

“I wasn’t told anything for a month. A whole month. Maker, I didn’t even know if you were alive. Irving wouldn’t say anything and that only made me more paranoid: I thought he was trying to hide something. I’d driven myself half mad with worry when Cullen told me you were alright.”

“Well, except for the whole “ _rotting in a dark cell for a year”_ part.” He mused.

There was a soft chuckle as she moved closer, her robes rustling quietly as she shifted her weight, and for a brief second her lips crashed against his. His eyes widened in surprise as his heartbeat quickened ostensibly. He suspected the act was born of pity, rather than enamored passion, but he didn’t care: it felt good, it felt _right_ , and for an instant he forgot that he was a prisoner in a cold, dark cell. Neither of them dared deepen the kiss, lest the noise attracted the Templar’s attention, so he contented himself with curling his fingers around the soft red locks at the base of her neck, holding her against him for a few fleeting moments. When she grudgingly pulled back, she was smiling: it was a sad, awkward smile, but a smile nonetheless, and Anders decided it was better than nothing.

“Try to not piss off too many Templars.” He finally managed to say. “I’d hate to come out of here to find you were made Tranquil.” He scrunched his nose at the thought.

“I’ll try.” She promised.

“My lady.” Cullen’s voice was anxious and impatient, and Anders regretfully tore his hand away from the soft red curls. “We should head back to the quarters.”

 Arilanna gave his fingers one last squeeze before obediently walking out of his cell. Cullen smiled awkwardly at her as she stood by his side, and she curtly returned the gesture, although her eyes remained cold.

 “She isn’t a lady.” Anders hissed almost unintentionally as the heavy door closed behind the elf. “And she will never be yours.” He added spitefully, emboldened and still euphoric from the memory of her soft mouth against his dry, ravaged lips.

The Templar was standing near the cell’s door now, close enough for Anders to distinguish his features clearly. He saw his cheeks flush red as anger flashed in his eyes. Then Arilanna walked past him, and the rage subsided to make room for an air of deep sadness.

Anders almost, _almost_ regretted teasing him. 

The elf waved silently at him as they disappeared down the corridor, and he was left to his solitude once more.


End file.
